


Little Foxes

by benzoin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Black Widow Program, Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Codependency, Human Experimentation, Nationalism, Psychological Trauma, Red Room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzoin/pseuds/benzoin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=1263573#cmt1263573">prompt</a> on the <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org">Daredevil Kinkmeme</a> where Vladimir and Anatoly are instead cis women and escapees of the Black Widow program who decide to remake themselves in America, promising each other they will never again be as powerless and scared as they were when they were children.  </p><p>Amoral, hungry women who have already learned when to take orders and when to strike, sharpening themselves under Fisk and waiting to take the city for their own.</p><p>Vignettes starting with their childhood in Russia progressing through S1 of Daredevil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~i lost the actual prompt so i'm approximating here, but if anyone happens to have it bookmarked, i would be endlessly grateful for a link!~~ AO3 user Konrad now has my endless gratitude!
> 
> the current tags are kind of a broad stroke, more will be added as the work progresses, as well as more detailed warnings in the notes sections, as needed. chapters will be short, for the most part - i'm hoping this means it'll be easy to update often

“When we found you, you were like two little foxes,” the instructor says to them over tea. Her eyes are the grey of pig iron and unwavering. Her tone is expectant. Vera, older, knows this is a test, keeps her eyes down, straightens the napkin on her lap, silently plucking at the lace edging. 

Apollinariya is too eager to please, asks, “Wild? Afraid?”

“No, dear,” the instructor says with a dangerous sort of fondness in her voice, “In peril of being skinned alive.”

Apollinariya's pale lips make the shape of the word _oh_ , no sound escapes. She blinks and blinks, does not risk a glance across at her sister. Instead she lifts her chin, nods once and takes a careful sip from her cup. The china is so fine it's translucent enough to glow, even in the dim light of the parlor, windows caped in heavy brocades. The cup only rattles once as she sets it back on the saucer.

“You are only safe here,” the instructor says slowly, tipping her head, her glossy wine-dark nails carding through the loose curls at Apollinariya's temples. Vera forces her gaze straight ahead, cannot hide the tremble of revulsion in her lip as the instructor continues, leaning in like she's sharing a secret with them, “Here, you will become the one holding the knife, instead.”

Neither of them dare say they do not want to hold the knife, they have nowhere else to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter gets a **CW for alcoholism, brief allusions to suicidal ideation, parents fighting, debt, homicide, descriptions of injuries and death** in addition to what's already in the tags for the work

It's like this, Vera wakes screaming, screaming because she remembers. There is so little she remembers lately, things keep slipping in and out, like a radio poorly tuned. But everything comes back at night, the way her ears rang high and disorienting after the gunshots, the wet, sucking sound of ruined lungs, Apollinariya's nails digging into her arm.

Her Papa comes home late. He always comes home late, shuffling with the keys too long and moving through the house with heavy, wide-swinging steps like he's wading through the shallows long after bedtime's passed. Sometimes Mama is waiting up for him and she sounds sad and scared when she shouts at him about money and drinking. 

Sometimes Mama is asleep and he slips into Vera and her sister's room, kisses them each on the top of the head, stinking of alcohol and bile, his nose hot on her forehead as if he'd been crying. And because he thinks they are still sleeping, he whispers things to the dark, how they deserve more than he gives them, how he wishes he could be a better father. And he leaves to sit in the kitchen and clean his gun until they find him there in the morning, slumped in his chair with an oil-soaked rag in his hand and sick down his front.

Her Papa comes home late and there are too many footsteps, someone, impatient, is banging on the door while he fumbles with the keys. She knows his hands are shaking because the keys are jingling like silverware in a slammed drawer. Whoever's with him is angry, muttering low, deep-voiced, a constant rumble until the door falls open and their voice kicks to a roar, snarling for her Papa to pay them what they're owed. Agreements, at least three, she is sneaking to her door to listen, they are calling for her mother, turning out cabinets, things crashing, more yelling, heavy feet. Her mother is screaming, long and high, like a wolf. Everyone is running, the house is too small for this, it's like being inside a beating heart, all this slamming, thumping, shoving. Body sounds. 

Someone shoots, then someone else shoots again, her ears are ringing, everything lurches, the floor tilts up at her alarmingly fast, she crawls to the blanket chest at the foot of her bed, climbs in, her face buried in scratchy blankets, tears soaking in, the oily, animal smell of wet wool. She makes herself small, thinks of Apollinariya in the next room, who had gone to sleep with her Mama to keep her from crying, she must be awake now and scared and-

They're not going to fucking touch her, they're not. She doesn't remember lifting the lid of the chest, doesn't remember standing, but she's running now and she hears someone, not her Papa, not her Mama soaked in red and making broken animal sounds on the floor, and he's saying _there's a kid, there's a fucking kid in the house, Dima, Christ, there's a_ kid _, you stupid fuck, you said,_ and someone's got her around the shoulder and-

The handcuffs snap tight, ring against the metal of the headboard as she jerks in her sleep, she has to get to her sister, still screaming at a man who's long cold in the ground. 

A nurse comes. Vera is still breathing loud and fast, her hair pasted against her forehead with sweat. All of the nurses blur together, but she thinks, maybe this one is new. She smells like violets, pink lipstick, over the antiseptic smell. Her cool hands rub the sore places where Vera's cuff digs into her wrist every night as she pulls. 

“Come along,” she says, and she is kind enough to walk Vera past Apollinariya's room so she can see her sleeping safe and quiet, curled on her side, her cuffed arm thrown across her pillow almost casually. A lilting tone poem is playing through crackling speakers in the infirmary. The nurse dresses Vera's wrist and brings her a mug of tea, a paper cup with some pills she promises will help with the worst of the nightmares, says, they should talk about it. 

She asks Vera if it wouldn't feel better if she could just forget. Vera says she doesn't think she can. The nurse promises that she doesn't need to remember anything she doesn't want to. And why would she need to remember anything but here and now, where she is so safe and cherished? And wouldn't she rather the adults keep those painful memories for her, so she won't have to have nightmares anymore. It's so incredibly easy it makes her tremble. She's never been given a gift like this.


End file.
